


A Little Bookshop

by elfin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: The morning after the night after....





	A Little Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> I've read the book - but it was a long time ago. I've seen the new trailer for the MUCH anticipated series. Once the show airs, I'll come back and correct any mistakes in characterisation, backstory, mannerisms and voices. Promise.

The drawback of human form was its limitations. While having a physical body on earth was helpful, enjoyable even, it did have its downsides and hangovers were one of them. 

Crowley’s head hurt. He hadn’t even lifted his eyelids yet but still the damned sun was too bright through the thin layer of skin. That led to a moment’s confusion as to where he was, because his own room in his chosen abode was protected by blinds and black out curtains. In his own bed, the sun could explode and he’d be none the wiser. 

This, then, wasn’t his bed. And it all came flooding back. A wide, serpentine smile slowly crossed his face, and he opened his eyes to confirm his memory wasn’t playing tricks. The room wasn’t small, but the shelves which lined two of the walls were deep. He was lying in a mahogany four poster bed, which was squeezed into the space between them, standing on a large antique rug which had seen better days. He could smell paper and dust, aftershave and a tantalising hint of sex. 

He knew whose bed this was before the owner of it turned, in a rustle of high thread count Egyptian cotton, and uttered several unnecessary expletives, ending with a huff of inevitability and the words, ‘This is, of course, all my fault.’

It was, actually, for once. The end of the world stopped, His plans for the apocalypse thwarted, it had been Aziraphale’s idea to celebrate with a six figure bottle of brandy he hadn’t seen fit to drink before, even on the eve of Armageddon. 

They’d polished off most of it as the night got darker, deeper; sitting in the candle lit back room of Aziraphale’s beloved bookshop. They were as drunk on success as they were on the brandy, although if he was to be brutally honest they hadn’t really accomplished anything. Adam had done the hard work. 

Late on, the candles down to white stubs in their holders, Crowley clearly remembered looking over at his best friend, with his pouty lips and his ridiculous hair, and thinking how he’d never looked so much like temptation in the whole of history. Not that he would ever have told His Angelness that, because he liked him, a lot, and there was no worse insult for a servant of God than to be told he looked like a spawn of Satan. 

Given the current situation, he wondered, just for a moment, what he had said. But with a jolt of surprise he realised he really hadn’t started this, Aziraphale had quite literally talked himself into it. One minute he’d been going on about the wisdom of humans and the sense of handing over the reins of what, by rights, now had to be surely theirs, and the next he was launching himself bodily at Crowley, sitting on his lap, winding surprisingly strong arms around his neck and attacking his mouth with the feverish intensity of a being possessed.

Let no demon say that Crowley was an inexperienced spawn. But even he took a moment to get with what was one of Aziraphale’s better ideas. For a short time it was like being assaulted by an eel, albeit one in human form. Crowley rubbed his back to calm him a little, touching through the expensive tailored jacket, tracing the curve of his spine over the waistband of his perfectly fitted trousers to his tail bone, all the time making sure his kiss was returned with matching ardour and enthusiasm. The last thing he’d wanted was for the angel to think he wasn’t welcome. 

Drunkenness, like the resulting hangover, was nothing more than a physiological response to chemicals, and one angels and demons alike could halt with a single thought. Of course, that thought was a complex change in the balance of brain chemistry and biological make up, but it was a trick those of them who spent any time of earth clothed in meat suits soon mastered. 

If Aziraphale wanted to blame the brandy, who was Crowley to deny him? They’d had fun. The sight and sensation of one angelic hand wrestling with the fly over the bulge at his crotch was probably seared into his memory for all eternity, alongside the touch of heavenly fingers on the oh-so sensitive skin on the underside of his penis. So many demons and angels didn’t sweat the details when they dropped in to a human and took control. Some didn’t even bother with the basics, such as age or sex. It didn’t matter what they looked like, it was more about where they were, or - on specific occasions - who they were. All those years ago, Crowley had chosen wisely, watching from the shadows, selecting a good model; a young man, well-endowed in the genital department and with fiercely good looks to help him put them to use. He wasn’t sure what Aziraphale had been looking for in his host. A gentleman of sorts, he supposed. 

He’d always looked the same too. Crowley changed his hair, his clothes, with every fashion that came and went, sometimes ahead of the curve, sometimes lagging behind. Aziraphale was more familiar to him than his own reflection. Always present, at every moment in history. Well, every one that mattered. 

Still. They probably shouldn’t have done what they did.

Next to him, Aziraphale sat up, and Crowley watched him almost shake off the hangover - literally - then think better of it.

‘Makes it easier if you have a head like a bird cage and a stomach like a coal mine to distract you,’ Crowley concurred. ‘Do you think you’ll… be in trouble?’

His angelic companion regarded him with a sobering expression, one that made Crowley think he should probably get rid of the hangover to allow himself to think straight. Then he spoilt it by rolling his eyes and shaking his head. ‘I think everyone’s too busy tripping over their own wings, trying to come up with excuses as to why His plan failed at the final hurdle. Or burying their heads in the sand and hoping no one notices them. Possibly quite literally. Probably on the beach at Weston-Super-Mare.’

Crowley smiled, experiencing a moment of whimsy. ‘Ah, Weston. A true triumph until that punk Banksey came along and made the whole place “cool”.’ He even made the quotes in the air with his fingers. ‘I will never know why he did that.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes. Sorry. How about coffee?’

‘Tea. At Masey’s. And you’re buying.’ 

He wasn’t sure that was fair. But he was… happy. And happy didn’t come along all that often. He wasn’t going to waste it arguing.


End file.
